Surreal
by cloudosaurus
Summary: There's something surreal about domesticity, Katsuki thinks, gaze flitting between the replay of Red Riot on the TV screen and Kirishima, humming to himself as he putters about in the kitchen. [KiriBaku domestic fluff.]


Katsuki yawns and stretches, rolling out of bed to glare at the morning sun with one eye open. It glares back, so he gives it the finger.

It's a weekend, and when Katsuki stomps out of the bedroom, Kirishima is already puttering about in the kitchen. Something smells impossibly sweet, making his stomach grumble. Maybe it's this, or maybe it's the heightened peripheral vision that Kirishima always seems to have when it comes to Katsuki, but regardless, Kirishima sets down a pan, turning around to give Katsuki a bright smile.

"Morning," he beams at Katsuki, and then walks over to plant a kiss on his cheek.

It's too early to be affectionate, Katsuki wants to complain. Instead, he opts to fix Kirishima with a petulant look, caught between a sulk and a glare. Kirishima laughs like he knows – of course he knows; they've spent countless mornings like this over the past five years. And then the fucker leans in to kiss Katsuki's other cheek, still chuckling. Katsuki scowls but kisses back this time.

"What're you making, Shitty Hair?" he grumbles, even though Kirishima's hair isn't up in his ridiculous spikes, and it looks considerably less shitty right now.

"Chocolate chip pancakes!" is the quick, sing-songy reply, followed by another wide, pointy-toothed grin.

And Kirishima is being his horribly happy self, at a horribly early time of day, so Katsuki just grunts, and exits the scene to plop himself down on the living room couch. Kirishima's gentle laughter rings behind him.

He turns on the TV only to see Red Riot on the screen, talking to an anchorwoman. Katsuki leans forward. It's an interview from last evening, taken a few hours after Red Riot played a pivotal role in defeating a minor yet destructive criminal organization. Red Riot stands tall, broad back apparent through the outline of his hero costume. His voice is serious and gruff, even though he's humble as he accepts the interviewer's praise. Manly, Katsuki muses.

Katsuki tilts his head to watch Kirishima over his shoulder. He's still in the kitchen, facing away from Katsuki as he whisks batter, absentmindedly humming a children's song; laughably off-key. Kirishima's hair spills down his back in soft, crimson waves, untied and un-gelled. Mussed bed hair. It's longer than it used to be, and the dark red tips reach the top of the large pink bow of Kirishima's apron, tied snugly above the curve of his hip.

Katsuki's eyes flit back to Red Riot, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, nodding emphatically as he gives his interview. It's entirely too surreal, Katsuki thinks.

He gets up and returns to the kitchen, standing behind Kirishima to look over his shoulder just as he adds a heap of flour to the batter. The flour goes up with a poof, and Katsuki swallows a sneeze. He steps closer, until Kirishima is trapped between his body and the counter, and wraps his arms around Kirishima's waist. Katsuki nuzzles Kirishima's neck, breathing in his scent. He smells like musk and strawberries, and Katsuki hums.

Kirishima sucks in a breath and shivers, dropping his spoon with a clang. Katsuki doesn't relent, entwining his fingers in Kirishima's long, red locks, and tugging, until Kirishima tilts his head back obediently. Katsuki nibbles and sucks at the sensitive patch of skin beneath Kirishima's jaw, letting his warm breath ghost against his ear, murmuring sweet nothings.

"Katsuki," Kirishima tries, voice uneven but stubborn. Katsuki can hear his pout. "I wanted to make pancakes."

"Shut up, Eijirou," Katsuki mutters in reply. "Let me kiss you." And that's that, and they both know it. A soft sound escapes Kirishima's lips.

The news channel switches to a replay of yesterday morning's rescue mission. On the screen, Red Riot roars as he charges through ranks of villains to save a sobbing girl from a crumbling, burning building.

In Katsuki's arms, Kirishima melts, falling against his chest, the tan column of his neck exposed for Katsuki to mark him as he pleases. Breathy sighs spill from his parted lips and _oh_, Kirishima is so wonderfully complacent and pliant in Katsuki's grip.

And no, Katsuki doesn't think he'll ever get used to this. Which is just as well, he muses, as he unties the silly bow of Kirishima's apron and slips a firm hand under his t-shirt, over the warm skin of his slim waist.


End file.
